


Stitches

by WolfVenom



Series: R6S Drabbles [12]
Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Blood and Injury, Explicit Language, Fights, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Medical Procedures, Terrorism, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 08:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14745131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfVenom/pseuds/WolfVenom
Summary: Fuze is a stubborn mule, and Doc doesn't have the time to rein him back in.





	Stitches

It started with a bomb.

Granted, that  _was_  how most incidents in a Counter Terrorist unit began, but Doc was frustrated because  _it wasn’t a terrorist’s bomb._

“Easy–  _fuck_ , easy on the fucking bandages, yeah?” Fuze hissed, doing everything in his power to resist and make Doc’s job that much harder for both of them. He considered passing off a mask of nitrous oxide for oxygen, at least he’d get some peace and quiet then, but his morals were too stoic.

“Merde, if you’d sit still and stop complaining, I’d be done by now. Shut up and let me work.” He snapped, forcing Fuze’s head to the side roughly and not bothering to be gentle in digging tweezers into the shrapnel wound. A bit back complaint was all he got in return, but at least he stopped struggling against every little thing, allowing Doc to fish out any leftover metals and stitch up his shoulder. The nastiest wound was across his pectoral, slicing into valuable muscles there, but nothing internal required stapling; that was a boon.

Fuze made it certain that he didn’t want local anesthetic, claiming his strength over pain. An absolute idiot, he was. Stubborn, foolish, ignorant.

Two stitches per laceration and Doc doused his entire left side in hydrogen peroxide, wiping off the excess with a sheet of gauze and wrapping the area in a thick square of it, securing the bandages with medical tape.

When Fuze saw him reaching for a syringe, he cussed and scooted away, shooting daggers from his eyes at Doc.

“Do you want to go black and green with infection or not, huh?” He berated, looking down at the Uzbek like a mother to a naughty child. Fuze rolled his eyes and pouted in the other direction, leaving Doc to prick his shoulder quickly, ignoring the flinch and the ugly piece of flesh hanging off of Fuze’s neck that he instructed be left alone.

Doc would keep the wound clean regularly, and then the dead tissue would darken and rot off by itself. Painless, costless, efficient. Then he could patch up the wound without the risk of pus and other various bodily fluids drying the skin to the bandage; which would be a hundred times more painful than a needle. Fuze stared in open disgust at the beginning seepage of the white cloth around his torso, a yellowish pink foreshadowing a red bleed.

“When can I get back to training, then?” Fuze asked, already reaching for his shirt. Doc felt another ten years of his life fly out his ear before turning around to address Fuze properly.

“Any strain on your arm, neck, and chest will tear open the wound and I’ll have to re-close them. Healing is your top priority, Shuhrat, so I better not catch a  _glimpse_  of you anywhere other than the bunks,” Doc grit out, keeping one eye on him and another on cleaning his tools. He paused, considered his words, before adding, “or I’ll have to babysit you until there’s only a  _scar_  left.”

Another grumpy sneer, a fidget, and some picking at his wounds. Doc slapped his hands away and gave him the stink eye, a warning to refrain or risk the consequences. Fuze attempted to grab his shirt and roll it on, slowly, mostly due to pain.

“ _Ух, нихуя себе,_  that  _hurts_.” He whined, grunting through the pressure on the thread in his body until his clothes were neatly back in place.

“Remember what I said, Fuze.  _No_  training.”  
  
  


So of course, what Fuze did was train.

He did laps, jogged outside, completed sit-ups with Kapkan and even worked on his legs with Frost, anything he could that would push Doc’s patience  _just_ enough to be satisfying. Mostly because he wasn’t doing anything detrimental, per se, but because he openly defied doctors orders like a little shit and knew he could get away with it. Doc was just a busy man.

Glaz always took notice, of course, would shame Fuze with a quiet  _‘придурок ты’_ , even try to rope him into activities together that weren’t strenuous; like art, reading or cooking with one another. Because Glaz was peaceful, and always ready to solve problems.

So when Doc was finally free, and finally fed up with Fuze’s behaviour, he ordered the operator down to med-bay and wrestled him onto the examination table, sat him down and threatened him with zip ties until he stilled long enough to be lectured.

“Bandages. Off.”

And when they did, Fuze was actually silent for once.

“I told you, remember?” he tried not to sound smug, but it still bled through his words, “now you have ruptured the wound, and the sweat you’ve accumulated under the gauze has irritated the injury.” Doc pulled on clean latex gloves and disposed of the browned wraps, pulling out a slim tool much like a dentists pick.

Ignoring the foreign cussing and fidgeting Doc stripped away the reddened and dying tissue around each slice with the pointed end, incurred intentional bleeding and pulled out the old stitches with his fingers. Fuze huffed furiously yet stayed still, for Doc was the one right by his throat with a scalpel and his insults could definitely wait till they both had sharp objects.

Pus and clear fluid leaked from each slash in usually tanned skin, followed loosely by blood and soon after the hissing bubbles of more disinfectant. Allowing proper drainage of the infected area was now top priority.

“So what, I’m on bed rest like a pregnant woman until it’s all gone? That’s like two fucking months.” Came the complaint, and Doc grit his teeth all too unhealthily.

“And if in those two months you somehow get yet another damned infection, you can suffer through it instead, hm? Do I cater no respect in this God forsaken place…”

Treating the area with alcohol, Doc prepped for more sutures and threaded skin efficiently and quickly. The more time wasted on a fool was valuable time wasted indeed. He repeated last weeks process and ushered Fuze to leave, obviously grown to resent the Russian’s presence. And if that didn’t sting a little…

Fuze shuffled awkwardly, entirely unequipped to deal with emotional discussions, but still yearned to maybe at least apologize, seek forgiveness, sort out the underlying anger in their partnership.

But instead, he left. Tended to his wound like Tachanka to his guns, respected the good doctor’s boundary and tried to act like an adult for once.

By the time the next mission rolled around, and checkups were in order before dispatch, Fuze’s wounds had nearly healed entirely. Doc inspected them, carefully, gently prodded the still tender flesh and then checked his breathing and eyesight. But he still said nothing. And Fuze had nothing to say.


End file.
